The First Time Illya Called His Partner Polya
by alynwa
Summary: Illya is in the doghouse.
1. Chapter 1

"You can keep looking, Illya," Napoleon said as he reclined on the almost paper – thin mattress he'd been sleeping on for the past two nights, "but I really think we're going to have to wait for Mark and April to find us. I managed to let HQ know our whereabouts just before we were captured and they haven't moved us anywhere, so they'll be here I estimate within five hours."

"If you want to just lie back and await rescue, be my guest," his prickly partnered replied as he continued to inspect the walls of the cell, "A lot of unpleasantness can happen in five hours and I would prefer to be in one piece. _Aut viam inveniam aut faciam. _Sorry, that means…"

"'I shall find a way or make one.'" He was about to say something else, but when Illya stopped what he was doing to stare at him with wide eyes, he glared at the blond instead. "What's that look for?" he demanded.

"Nothing. I was just surprised, is all."

Napoleon sat up, anger etched on his face. "You really do think I'm stupid."

The reddening Russian said, "No, Napoleon, I do not think you are stupid."

"Just stupid compared to _you._ Admit it: You were shocked I knew that Latin saying!"

Before Illya could answer, the sound of gunfire erupted not too far away. They both recognized the sounds of Walther pistols and knew their rescue was at hand.

Napoleon reached for both cots and turned them over so they would have a barrier between them and the plastic explosive he knew would be used to force the door open. He reached out and none too gently yanked his partner down beside him. "We are so not done with this discussion," he growled.


	2. Chapter 2

Mark Slate and April Dancer had led the Strike Team that had liberated Solo and Kuryakin from the clutches of the South American despot who fancied himself another Mussolini. The four agents were now flying home on the UNCLE jet. It was the first time the junior agents had flown on it and they were both wishing they were on Pan Am.

"What is going _on_ with them?" April whispered to her partner, "Napoleon's been looking like a storm cloud ever since we rescued them and has been as talkative as a rock and Illya looks like he can't decide whether to be angry or upset that someone's kicked his cat!"

"Well, you date 'im, Luv, so go over there and ask 'im what's the matter. I'll wait here."

"Oh no, you don't! I'm not walking into the lion's den while you sit in safety! If I walk to the front of the cabin to speak with Illya, _you're_ going to the back of the cabin to speak with Napoleon!"

They both turned their heads to glance back at their CEA, who sat strapped into one of the plush leather seats reading a magazine while holding a large Scotch in his right hand. He hadn't spoken since thanking them for breaking him and Illya out of confinement. They then snuck a peek at Napoleon's partner who sat up near the cockpit nursing a bottle of vodka.

They looked at each other and shook their heads in mutual agreement to stay right where they were. "It's too bad," Mark sighed as he reached for one of the sandwiches the stewardesses had supplied each grouping of agents, "I always envisioned being on the UNCLE jet as one flight long party, especially after saving one of our own and here we've saved not only the CEA and his partner, but we've set in motion a series of events that will overthrow that corrupt government and I feel like I'm attending a funeral."

"I know what you mean, Darling. I just hope the funeral we're attending isn't for Napoleon and Illya's partnership."


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Waverly sat sucking on his unlit pipe apparently listening as his two top agents each reported on their last affair. Unless one of them said something shocking, he was only half listening; after all, he would have a written report within the next thirty – six hours. What he was really doing was watching the subtle interplay between the two men. To the untrained eye, Agents Solo and Kuryakin were behaving the way they normally do when they entered his office. Illya had taken his usual seat and had not sat until Napoleon did. The CEA, as usual, had allowed his partner to report first before speaking.

But to Waverly's trained eye, they were acting out of sorts. Napoleon's body language screamed he was not happy with Illya. He was sitting in his seat with his left leg crossed over his right, which meant that ever so slightly, his body was turned away from his partner seated to his left. Normally, he would look his partner's way when Agent Kuryakin was giving his report; today his eyes remained focused on him. When he had asked him a question, he answered it, but didn't glance at Illya to get his silent agreement with the answer. Agent Kuryakin tried several times to make eye contact with Solo and when he couldn't, his face became even more unreadable than it usually was.

He realized that Solo had stopped speaking and both agents were looking at him. "Well," he harrumphed, "I look forward to getting your written report."

Napoleon nodded his head. "Yes, Sir. Will that be all, Sir?"

"No, that is not all. Gentlemen, I have heard it through the grapevine that your partnership is a bit rocky right now. Is that true?" He watched both men startle and then squirm, not wanting to answer the question. "Your silence speaks volumes. Do we need to get a therapist involved?" He was pleased to see both men's eyes widen in shock. "I'll take that as a no. I suggest strongly that you get whatever it is that is affecting your partnership out in the open and resolved because if you can't, I may be forced to make changes. That is all. Dismissed."

As they walked towards the elevator bank, Napoleon said, "Be at my place tonight by six – thirty. I'll make sandwiches."


	4. Chapter 4

Neither man was particularly hungry, despite not having eaten since landing in New York. Illya managed a couple of bites before putting his ham and cheese hero back on the plate. The men were sitting at Napoleon's kitchen table. "Napoleon," he finally said, "I do _not _think you are stupid."

"You have a funny way of showing it," Napoleon said as he finally looked the smaller man full in the face. "Just because you have a PhD in Quantum Physics and I don't doesn't mean I don't know Latin. I went to Catholic school for Pete's sake! The nuns shoved Latin down my throat!"

"Is that it? Is that why you became so angry?"

"Yes! No! I mean, you always seem to make snide remarks about my intelligence. When we were first partnered five years ago and you would make comments, I took it in stride because I thought you were joking, but now I'm not so sure."

Illya shook his head in amazement. "Napoleon. Polya…"

"'Polya?' What does _that _mean? Some Russian slang word for idiot?"

For the first time in what felt like a long time, Illya smiled. "No, it does not mean idiot. Russians are not big, as you Americans say, on nicknames, but we have them. They are only used by family and close friends; it is insulting for anyone else to call you by that name. Polya is the diminutive I made of your name. I think now is a good time to say it aloud so that you can know how highly I think of you."

"Napoleon, I may have a PhD in Quantum Physics, but you have a PhD in Communications and Sociology, so the day I met you I knew you are not stupid. You are intelligent in a way that I am not: I understand complex formulas and chemical reactions. You understand _people_. That is what makes you a master strategist. You know how people will react and can plan accordingly. One cannot do that and be stupid."

"I trust you with my _life_, Napoleon. Every day. Every mission. Why on Earth would I do that if I thought you were stupid? You _know_ I am joking when I insult you! What man does not tease his brother? If I sounded like I was being condescending when we were in that cell, I apologize profoundly. Forgive me."

Napoleon got up and went to the fridge, pulled out two beers and handed one to Illya. "I accept your apology and I have a confession to make. Let's go into the living room." He walked out of the kitchen without waiting to see if his partner would follow. When he stepped into his sunken living room, he settled into his recliner while Illya sat on the couch.

He tapped on his beer bottle for a few moments while he gathered his thoughts. "I did get angry when you started to translate that phrase, but the reason I got angry is, well, you hurt my feelings." He held up his hand when his partner's eyes widened and his mouth opened. "Let me finish. I don't know _why_ exactly that particular thing hurt my feelings, but in that moment, it did. My first flare of anger was at you, but that was quickly followed by anger at myself."

"Why?"

"_Why?_ We were captured and being held in a cell awaiting execution by firing squad and I was angry because _you hurt my feelings?_ I knew it was ridiculous to feel that way and I couldn't admit it at the time, so I just got…angry. I don't know what I would have said if the Strike Team didn't arrive when it did. Probably something hurtful. Getting rescued gave me time to realize I was behaving like a jerk, but I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing." He drained the last of his beer and set it on the coffee table. "I really do know that you respect me. I was being…insecure, I guess."

"Listen to me, Polya; you are the most intelligent person I know, even smarter than the Old Man himself. One of the smartest decisions you've ever made was making ours the kind of partnership where we can be honest about our feelings. I cherish that, I never want to lose that."

"Neither do I, Illya." Napoleon smiled at the compliment Illya paid him. "I want to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"Do you have a nickname that I can call you?"

"Da. My family called me Illyusha. You may call me that, if you wish. I only ask that you not call me that in public and I will not call you Polya in public."

Napoleon's smile broadened. "So, these are our pet names for each other?"

"I do not know what that means, Napoleon."

"A pet name is something you call someone that no one else does. It usually has a romantic connotation, but I think the term fits here."

"I guess so. I want to tell you something, Polya."

"Yes, Illyusha?"

"If you ever voice a doubt about how I feel about you or your intelligence again, I will treat you like the brother you are to me and try my best to beat you senseless. Do you understand me?"

"I do understand. Let's shake on it." Napoleon stood and pulled the smaller man up into a hug and then pulled back enough to shake Illya's hand. "Are we good? Because I'm suddenly starving."

Illya laughed. "Yes, moy brat, we are good. Let us go eat those sandwiches."


End file.
